


Fracture

by NiennaNir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiennaNir/pseuds/NiennaNir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dismantling Moriarty's network is a mission fraught with peril, something that Sherlock expected. But of everything he planned for, this never made the list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fracture

The lights over head were glaring, unnaturally bright and he squinted his eyes painfully. He went to raise his hand to shield his vision but he couldn't move, he was restrained. Panic surged up in his chest. His arms were bound against his body but his legs were free and he kicked out violently.

 

"John!" He shouted, still half delirious. A blurry figure hovered over him, shading him from the glare and he squinted up at them, kicking again in alarm.

 

"Sherlock?" the voice was gentle, feminine and familiar and he choked, his foggy consciousness struggling to identify her. "It's all right, stay calm."

 

"Molly?" he murmured. Her face swam into focus and he was aware of her gently stroking his hair but he brushed the thought aside, ignoring it. "Molly, untie me, hurry! We haven't any time to lose."

 

"It's all right Sherlock," she insisted. "Everything's fine. Do you remember where you are?"

 

"No," he shook his head. "Someone must have jumped me." he shuddered, he hated empty spaces in his memory that he couldn't properly account for. Deleting information was one thing, that was choice. To have nothing there at all was so horribly unsettling.

 

"Sherlock," Molly's tone was cautious. Sherlock ignored her, struggling to get his bearings. He must have been caught unawares by one of Moriarty's men, kidnapped and taken here. His head pounded and he winced.

 

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped, glaring at her. "Untie me! I haven't time for this. What are you doing here? Where's John?"

 

"I'm afraid he's had another lapse, Inspector," Molly said, looking up at a point over Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't think you'll get anything out of him." Sherlock twisted around, his shocked gaze falling on another familiar face.

 

"Lestrade," he gasped in relief. "thank god, get me out of here. Where ever here is. Moriarty's men are still on my trail, they'll be after John next. You have to get him and Mrs Hudson and the three of you have to get somewhere safe."

 

"Is he usually like this?" Lestrade asked Molly uncomfortably.

 

"What do you mean usually?!" Sherlock demanded angrily. "What's going on here?"

 

"Normally he isn't this agitated. "Molly said a bit nervously. "Sherlock, look at me. I want you to concentrate."

 

"I can't concentrate!" He bellowed. "Where's John? Why won't anyone speak to me properly and why am I trussed up like a Christmas turkey?"

 

"Sherlock you need to stay calm," she insisted, reaching to stroke his hair again but he pulled away.

 

"Answer me!" He demanded, his eyes manic. "John!"

 

"Doctor John Watson," the familiar voice was like ice and it made his blood run cold, Sherlock turned panicked eyes on his elder brother. "is dead." It was like a punch to the stomach and he physically jerked back.

 

"No," Sherlock shook his head, a fresh wave of hysteria washing over him. "No, I don't believe you!"

 

"Sherlock, John's gone," Molly murmured, tears stinging her eyes. He stared back at her in horror. She wasn't lying, that much was abundantly clear. 

 

"How?" he could hear his voice breaking but he didn't care, his attention fixed on Molly. "Who was it? Which one of Moriarty's men?"

 

"James Moriarty is safely ensconced in an extremely undisclosed location," Mycroft declared blandly. "I've kept him under tight lock and key since that business with The Woman." Sherlock stared back at him, his brain sliding out of focus.

 

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice small.

 

"Well I wasn't about to ignore him, after that, was I?" Mycroft sniffed. "Who knows what sort of mischief he could get up to if he were allowed to roam free." 

 

"Sherlock, look at me," Molly directed again, grasping hold of his chin and gently turing his eyes to meet her own. "John shot himself."

 

"No!" Sherlock folded in on himself groaning with pain. "No, no, no, no! I don't believe you!"

 

"Sherlock, you've know since it happened!" Molly insisted. "The strain's been too much and you keep blocking it out."

 

"John wouldn't!" Sherlock insisted. "He wouldn't! It's a trick! He...." an ill feeling welled in his stomach. "Is this... was it because I faked my death? There was no other way!"

 

"Sherlock!" Molly faced him with a fierceness he'd never seen in her before, tears spilling down her cheeks. "John had a resurgence in his PTSD last year, he locked himself in his room and he shot himself with his hand gun while you were in the flat."

 

"No!" Sherlock bit his lip, stifling the pained moan that threatened to rise from his chest. "I'd remember!"

 

"It was right after we came back from out at Dartmoor," Lestrade acknowledged sadly. "He seemed rattled at the time but I blew it off. I wish now I hadn't." Sherlock let out a groan, doubling up. 

 

"But Moriarty!" he protested. "St Bart's!"

 

"You didn't take it very well," Molly said tenderly, stroking his hair once more as he curled up on the padded floor. He vision was clearing more now. He was clearly in a mental hospital, an extremely private mental hospital, knowing his brother. He was firmly secured in a straight jacket, the disturbingly clean and clinical room was well padded ceiling to floor. "We didn't realize how delusional you were becoming until you tried to throw yourself off the roof of St Bart's. If Lestrade hadn't made it in time to stop you...."

 

"I am... grateful, inspector," Mycroft offered hesitantly. Lestrade only eyed him uncomfortably.

 

"He has these spells where it's too much for him and he blocks it all out again," Molly admitted. "He creates these scenarios where John is still alive so that he doesn't have to face it. I'm afraid he won't be able to focus on anything for a while."

 

"I'm sorry you came all this way out here for nothing," Mycroft declared and he genuinely looked disappointed. "I'd rather hoped something like a good mystery might help snap him out of it."

 

Sherlock bit back a sob, pressing his face into the padded floor. John was dead, John was dead and worse, not because of some criminal mastermind because of a bloody mental... His train of thought skidded, derailing with a spectacular crash. 

 

Dartmoor.

 

He saw it all over again, the dark lab, the lights, the sound recordings. A traumatized John screaming at him in terror.

 

"I killed him!" He shrieked before he could stop himself. "Oh god, it was me!" A pained scream tore from his throat and he threw himself against the nearby wall, dissolving in a fit of sobs. He felt Molly's arms surround him and he kicked against the floor, attempting to push himself away from her. 

 

"Don't touch me!" He screamed. He didn't want to be comforted, he didn't deserve it. "Don't you understand? I killed him!"

 

"Sherlock, calm down, mate," Lestrade stated softly, crouching beside him on the floor. "I know you're rattled but I've a case, maybe if you took a look at it."

 

"I experimented on him and he snapped," Sherlock whimpered. "I killed my best friend." Lestrade stared back at him with an ill expression. Without a word he stood to his feet, brushing past Mycroft and leaving the room without looking back.

 

"Sherlock," Molly's voice shook slightly.

 

"No!" Sherlock bellowed. "STOP! I killed him! I tortured John Watson to death!"

 

~*~

 

Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, his heart racing. His eyes were wide and unseeing, though there wasn't much to see. The spartan room gathered into focus in the early morning light that trickled in though the dirty windows. Sherlock's fingers tangled in his shirt over his heart and he let out the faintest whimper.

 

He drew in deep unsteady breaths, his eyes watering at the intensity of the dream. For a moment he was afraid he was going to be sick and he struggled to calm himself. This wasn't helping, he couldn't afford to slip up, not now. Not when he was so close to shutting down Moriarty's network for good.

 

His hands shook as he fumbled for the nightstand, grasping hold of his phone and typing frantically. He pressed send, staring at the screen with a blank expression.

 

_How's our friend? - S_

 

He trembled as he waited for a reply, the adrenaline slowly leaving his system. He should be on the move, he probably should have already left an hour ago. Every minute wasted was a minute longer before he could return home. But he couldn't help it. He sat in the half darkness, with nothing for comfort but to wait.


End file.
